


Detachment Studies

by tiptoe39



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-10-01 22:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: A soulmate doesn't always mean a lover. But it does mean an attachment that's hard when it breaks. Luckily, there's the field of detachment studies -- how to mitigate the cognitive damage done when one loses a soulmate. Ransom's going to become a specialist in the field and prove that there's life after detachment. And he's going to practice what he preaches -- by leaving his own soulmate behind.





	1. Chapter 1

A soulmate doesn’t always mean a lover. Sure, that’s how the romances go in the movies – revelations of matching soulmarks, followed by candlelit sex scenes – but real life is more complex than that. Plenty of twin sisters are born with matching marks. Sometimes, a mother gives birth to a baby who’s carrying her identical mark, and that mother and child will grow up each other’s best friend. Artists find their muses, and business executives find their right-hand-men, in their soulmates. It’s platonic just as often as it’s romantic. Torrid romances with soulmates can end – though, of course, lasting friendships usually form in their wake – and happy, successful marriages can be forged and maintained in the absence of matching marks.

Ransom’s parents, realists and pragmatists that they are, have drummed that into his head. “Don’t take it as a sign of destiny,” they tell him. “It’s a biological process, but like most biological processes, we’ve found ways to overcome it.” When Ransom – then young Justin – asks what that means, and aren’t _they_ mated, they join hands and nod and sigh. “It’s like this, honey,” his mom explains. “It’s _easiest_ to  remain physically close to your soulmate after you meet. But there are other ways around it, too. Many soulmates manage by just emailing each other a few times a week. They keep their mental synch that way. And even if you don’t – most people are okay.”

“They call those people detached,” Justin says. “Someone says Mrs. North is detached and that’s why she’s such a grump.”

“That’s a myth,” his father says. “The great majority of people can handle being detached, just like we can handle all the other stresses in our lives. You may not be as strong or as smart as you would be with a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. Some people do have a hard time, but most detached folks are just like you and me. They’re not the people they would have been, but we’ve all got things about us that are less than perfect.”

“It’s stupid,” Justin says. “Why would God make us like that? Why do we need someone else to be the best we can be?”

“A lot of things life deals us are stupid,” his mother says with her characteristic sunny laugh. “The best we can do is to figure out how to deal with them.”

Justin goes on thinking the whole concept is bullshit. He gets into science, medicine and biology, trying to figure out what on earth is the point of soul mating. He never really gets an answer on that front. What he does discover is the detachment studies – the emerging art and science of helping those who, for whatever reason, have met their soulmates but now have to live without them. He decides he wants to go to medical school, create a practice built around helping the detached live their lives as fully and happily as possible.

All the while, the thought of _his_ soulmate never really crosses his mind. If he meets them, he meets them. He’ll go from there.

* * *

When he and his fellow frog Adam strip down after their first day at practice, and discover the matching marks pressed low on their hips, Justin’s surprised at how pleased he is. It’s pretty fricking nice, realizing all that chemistry when they were paired up from drills comes from somewhere. Not violins-playing-and-fireworks nice, but definitely worth matching grins and high-fives. After all, they’ve been getting along like gangbusters ever since Shitty christened them with the new, perfect nicknames of Ransom and Holster. It’s more confirmation of an existing vibe than a magic moment.

And it doesn’t take them long to figure out their vibe. Bros from the get-go, BFFs by halfway through frog year, roommates by sophomore year. Holster’s awesome. They can talk about anything. Hell, they even talk about the fact that they’re soulmates, and what it means. Justin is very forthcoming about his theory that it’s all bullshit.

“Here’s the thing,” he tells Holster. “Love the shit out of you, bro, but I’m not gonna stay tied to you my whole goddamn life, you know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Holster says, “sure, right on. You gotta do you.”

“Exactly!” Ransom tells him. “You know, we got our own lives to live. And there’s modern medicine now, and the fucking Net. We can manage.”

“I hear you,” Holster says. “You’re my soulmate, dude, but you’re also my bro, and that means I want you to be happy. Whatever that means, wherever you end up, I’m behind you hundy-ten percent. We’ll make it work.”

* * *

As the pages of their college life flip by, the soulmate thing turns into more of a joke than anything. When Ransom finds Holster’s glasses for the seventeenth time, Holster says, “What the hell am I gonna do after you’re gone?”

“Fall into a manhole and die, most likely,” Ransom says, and Holster snorts.

The two of them even use it as a pickup technique. “He and I are soulmates,” Holster will say with his huge, winning grin. “So we belong to nobody. Free as birds.”  Girls love this, because it means that there’s a chance at a real relationship with them, since they don’t have some as-yet undiscovered romantic pinnacle waiting in the wings.  Sometimes a relationship actually happens. Sometimes it’s just a happy one-night-stand. As long as everybody’s cool with the arrangement.

But as their senior year approaches and their tandem act is honed into an art form, Ransom can’t help think that the whole free-as-a-bird thing is starting to lose its truth.

Because every day starts with Holster. Breakfast and usually lunch and always practice and most study sessions come with a side of Holster. When Ransom’s overwhelmed with scientific formulas, Holster keeps him safe and untouched until he can wrap his head around the rest of the world again. When he scores on the ice, Holster’s the hug he always goes for first. Holster’s the counterpoint to his melody, the foundation he leans on and the perfect partner in crime. He’s a constant, an anchor to hold on to in the wild tempest of college life. And now, in their final year of college, Ransom’s starting to ponder life without him… and he hates it.

“What the hell are we gonna do when we graduate?” he asks late at night.

“What do you mean, what are we gonna do?” Holster’s voice is terribly calm. Ransom wants to shake him. “You’re going to med school, and I’m gonna find some godawful 9-5 job that makes me bank.”

“I mean, about us,” Ransom says. “We’re not gonna share a place anymore. Are we?”

“Guess not.” That matter-of-fact voice again. Ransom’s stomach lurches. What if he were to say now, _but I want us to_? What if he were to say, _I’m not ready to let go of you_?

He shuts his eyes tight and tries not to picture the loneliness of his future.

* * *

As spring semester starts, Holster’s dating an anime nerd who’s spellbound him with tales of schoolgirls and transformation sequences. When they break up, Ransom half-expects a mecha to come crashing through the roof of the Haus to exact revenge. Instead, Holster just gets really pissy. He’s snippy at Ransom, he’s hard on the frogs, he even gives Bitty a death glare, and Bitty almost never deserves a death glare. One day, after a grueling practice, Ransom pulls Holster aside and calls him on it.

“That was uncalled for,” he tells Holster. “I’m saying it ‘cause you’re my friend, dude, but you have to ease up. The frogs don’t need this shit.”

“The frogs need exactly this shit,” Holster barks at him. “You know, maybe it’s you who needs to step it up, Rans. You’re captain, too. You want this team to be good, or you want to keep on singing Kumbaya forever?”

“That’s not fair and you know it.”

“We’re behind. I want to make the fucking playoffs, dude. We don’t need Jack fucking Zimmermann to do that, but we have to be leaders. Both of us. I’m not always gonna be there to play bad cop, remember? You’re gonna have to learn to suck it up without me.”

And fuck if that doesn’t feel like lemon juice applied to a gaping wound. Lemon juice liberally infused with salt. Ransom turns on his heel. “Fuck you, man,” he says, and heads for the showers.

Under the spray, he looks down at the mark on his hip, rubs his palm against it like he could erase it if he tried hard enough. Fuck this soulmate crap. Even the stupid fight they just had is enough to make him feel woozy and a little sick, though whether that’s biofeedback or just regret he doesn’t know.   


These days, he doesn’t feel quite right whenever he looks at Holster. He itches all over somehow, like there’s something he ought to be doing that he’s not doing, and he doesn’t know what it is. They’ll be watching Netflix, or just studying side by side, and Ransom will get caught in staring at him, studying the jut of his chin and the way his eyes brighten when he’s interested. And then he’ll think that someday soon Holster won’t be around all the time, and something sinks inside him.

* * *

Holster does eventually get over the breakup. Spring semester he’s got a light courseload, so he fucks around on the Quad a lot. And sleeps a lot. Ransom comes home from class often to find him snoozing away on his lower bunk, dead to the world. Most of the time, Ransom rolls his eyes, grabs whatever he needs from the attic, and heads downstairs to the den or to bother Bitty in the kitchen. Let Holster have his beauty sleep.

One day, he doesn’t. One day, he stops and watches.

Holster’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek, darker and thicker than they have any right to be. His mouth hangs slightly open, slack, lips moving almost imperceptibly with every breath. His body, absurdly big though it is, curls around his comforter like he’s seeking the warmth of a body.

Ransom wants, suddenly and irrevocably, to be that body.

He wants to walk over, lean down, and brush Holster’s hair out of his face. He wants to run his hand down Holster’s arm, cover Holster’s fingers with his own. He wants to lean in and touch his lips to Holster’s, feel that soft breath against his mouth. He doesn’t do any of it. He just stands there, fists clenched, eyes wide, and knows he’s in love.

He’s in love with his soulmate.

Shit.

* * *

It’s like someone’s ripped a bandage off his soul. Ransom hurts now, all the damn time. He and Holster pal around, per usual, and Ransom hurts. Team breakfast, Holster’s throwing shade at Nursey and Dex, and Ransom hurts. They do their usual act with the ladies. Holster has his arm around a girl with pretty brown hair and a musical giggle. He looks happy as hell. Ransom is glad for him, but he still hurts.

Spring semester rolls on. They miss the playoffs by one game. Everybody has a good cry. Ransom crawls into Holster’s bunk and they hold each other for a good hour. They tell each other they’re not failures, that they had a great season, they nearly made it. That night, they sleep curled up together. Holster awakens rejuvenated. Ransom wants to die.

It’s the worst of all possible worlds. They’re soulmates, so they have to stay in touch if they want to continue performing at their physical and mental peaks. Which gives Ransom no room to get over Holster, to forget his face or the sound of his voice or the wonderful, gregarious way he goes about life. But Holster will never think of them as more than bros. Ransom will be stuck in limbo for the rest of his life, forever pining, never fulfilled, as Holster goes ahead and gets married and has kids and enjoys life to the fullest. It’s hell, and Ransom doesn’t see a way around it.

He studies harder. The field of detachment studies is growing. More and more clinical trials are being published every month. Combinations of medications, lifestyle interventions, talk therapy, and other measures are showing promise in helping those adversely affected by detachment. Ransom reads them with greedy interest. The case studies make his eyes water. Wife, 52, loses husband of 17 years in a car crash. Sister to incarcerated brother with restricted communications between them. Man of 55 years loses mother to old age. The studies detail their relative cognitive and physical impairments after detachment and how the various interventions mitigate them. Some cases show promise. Others, not so much.

Not a single one offers an answer on how to mend a broken heart.

* * *

Ransom gets into med school at Johns Hopkins. Holster takes the train up to an interview in Boston. Before he goes, Ransom helps him pick out a tie.

“Shit’s getting real,” he comments.

“You know,” Holster says, “I’ve got nothing tying me to Boston. No reason I can’t look for a job in Baltimore too.”

Ransom scowls. “Fuck off with that. You gotta do you, remember?”

“I’m just saying,” Holster starts, then sighs and shrugs. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right, dude. Life happens. Nothing for it. Just gotta man up and deal with it.”

“Right.” Ransom slaps his back. “Just gotta man up.”

It’s good fucking advice. He should take it.

* * *

The line to the package room is a mile long. All the seniors are receiving their graduation robes today. Ransom waits impatiently, then totes the box home with a smile on his face. He’s just sent in his acceptance to Johns Hopkins today, too. The future is bright and he’s feeling great. His good mood lasts all the way home and up two flights of stairs. It even lasts him to his desk and through the first layer of cardboard.

Then the robe itself comes sliding out, and Ransom loses it.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, doubled over and clutching the robe and shaking, but when footsteps sound on the attic stair, Ransom looks up to see the sunset’s orange rays coming in through the tiny round window. Holster turns the corner into their room, looks over at Ransom, and stops. His own package of robes falls from his hands and thunks onto the floor.

“Shit,” he breathes. “I should… probably leave you alone.”

It’d be the right answer any other day, for any other thing. But this time, Ransom shakes his head. “No, don’t,” he hisses in a voice thick with unshed tears. “Don’t leave me alone.”

The words linger in the air. Ransom hears them, like an echo, and he’s abruptly aware of what they mean. What they really could mean.

He says them again, and stands, the robes slipping from his hands.

“ _Don’t leave me alone._ ”

Holster comes forward. He reaches out. His big hands slide around Ransom’s wrists, then up to his elbows, then shoulders. Concern paints his face. He doesn’t say a word.

“I can’t,” Ransom says, shaking his head. “I thought I was so much fucking better– I thought, who needs– but I’m not, I’m not strong enough, Holtz. I can’t do this without you, I can’t.”

“Rans,” Holster says. “Justin, what…”

“I’m not ready.” Ransom’s voice sounds absurd and small. It’s not the voice of a hockey captain, of a future med student, of anyone who could ever think to counsel anyone else about how to live life without a soulmate. “I’m not ready to live without you, I– I thought this would be easier because we’re just bros, but we’re not, I mean, you’re not. You’re not. Just.” His breath hitches. “You’re more.”

Holster takes in a quiet breath. His hands tighten on Ransom’s shoulders, And then, before Ransom’s eyes, he crumbles.

“Don’t say this shit,” he whispers. “Don’t fucking say this shit, Rans, I thought we’d decided. I thought we’d fucking decided on this.”

“I can’t help it,” Ransom leans forward, craving Holster’s warmth, even now, in the face of those cold words.

“We’re supposed to help it!” Holster’s almost shouting. “You’re supposed to be the expert at helping it, god damn it, Rans, I’ve been so fucking strong because I thought you– I thought you wanted–”

“I did, I wanted it, but– I’m not as– fuck, Holster, what does that even mean?” Ransom’s confused. Tears are swimming behind his eyes.

“What the fuck do you think it means?” Holster takes another step forward. They’re so far into each other’s space now, closer than they’ve been since the night they fell asleep together after elimination. Holster lifts his hands from Ransom’s shoulders and places them on his face instead, palms cupping Ransom’s jaw. “You’re the one who’s been so fucking hell-bent on us going our separate ways. God damn it!”

“Wait,” Ransom says, “wait, you don’t want to–”

“I broke up with my girlfriend over you,” Holster says. “I spent days in this room sleeping to keep from thinking about you. Hell, I think I even sabotaged my own goddamn job interview, I was so torn up about the idea of leaving you.”

“Because we’re soulmates?”

“Fuck soulmates,” Holster growls. Ransom can feel the rumble of it in the pit of his stomach. “You think this is some kind of biofeedback crap? I fucking love you, man. I don’t want to live without you. Period.”

With that, the tears spill over. Ransom feels them go, a flood of heat on his cheeks, and he closes his eyes to blink them out entirely. “Adam.” The name feels new on his lips, perfect and whole. “Shit. I’m so– I’m fucking– so fucking in love with –”

“Rans,”  Holster breathes. His fingers stretch upward, wiping paths through Ransom’s tears. “Is this okay?”

Ransom doesn’t know what he’s asking about – the tears, the conversation, their closeness? It doesn’t matter. Anything Holster wants right now. “Okay,” he answers.

Holster tips Ransom’s head up, presses their foreheads together. His skin radiates warmth into Ransom’s. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Ransom swallows hard.

Another second, another inch closer. They’re breathing each other’s breaths. “Okay?” Ransom can feel the word touch his lips.

He nods. “Okay.”

Holster’s mouth is soft on his. The kiss tastes like tears. Ransom purses his lips, tries to hold on for as long as he can. The air moves, soft, around them. Their lips slip apart.

“Okay?” Holster whispers, one more time.

Ransom finds there’s a smile inside him. He lets it out. “Okay,” he says, and presses his head into Holster’s shoulder.

* * *

They spend a day and a half in bed together. Then Holster groans, puts on pants, and gets behind his desk to go online. He rubs his eyes and stares at the screen in sleepy confusion.

Ransom lifts his graduation cap, finds his glasses there, and hands them over. Holster grins, blows him a kiss, and gets to searching for jobs in Baltimore.


	2. (bonus: Holster POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got asked to do the fic from Holster's POV. So here it is.

Holster’s very aware of how Ransom feels about soulmates.Holster respects and encourages Ransom in his pursuit of detachment studies, and assures him on a near-weekly basis that he’s totally cool with Ransom going away when the time comes. In related news, Holster is the biggest hypocrite and the worst friend in the entire world.

Because he does _not_ want to let go of Ransom.

He knows it from the first. This is a kind of chemistry he’s never felt before – it’s all the joy of camaraderie, like he felt for his teammates in juniors, plus a kind of invisible sizzle that keeps their conversation flowing and their vibe light and loose and happy. Being with Ransom is kind of like getting high, only instead of getting fuzzy everything gets sharper, clearer. Everything gleams and the world is a fucking fantastic place because Ransom’s there and he’s with Holster and together they can do anything.

Why on earth would he want to lose that? Why would he even be okay with losing it?

Even if detachment didn’t come with side effects (and lord, Holster’s seen the side effects, there was nothing worse than watching his best friend in juniors slowly lose his edge after his soulmate was drafted and slowly lost touch), Holster would have to be crazy to let Ransom go. But _Ransom_ feels differently about it. All he wants is to move on with his life, go to medical school, start up his practice and prove to the whole world that detachment is surmountable. And of course he’d put himself out as the prime example, because that’s the way Ransom works. He’s determined that unless _he himself_ can survive detachment and still rise to the top of his field, he’ll never have sufficient proof that his work is worthwhile.

It all kind of makes Holster sick to his stomach. 

He’s thought, on occasion, of trying to argue the point. “Do cancer doctors have to have cancer themselves?” he’s thought about asking. “Do psychiatrists have to be mentally ill? Why the hell would you limit yourself and your own level of achievement, just to help others? What’s wrong with us at least staying in touch once you’re gone?”

But he never says anything. Because Ransom’s so gung-ho about the whole thing, and Holster knows better than to mess with Ransom’s carefully calibrated equilibrium. Pull at one string and the whole tapestry will unravel. It’s not worth the risk, and it’s definitely not worth the fight that would surely ensue.

But it’s hard. And it gets harder when Holster realizes his feelings for Ransom are more than just friendship.

It happens in spring semester of senior year. Holster’s dating a girl whom he’s been instructed to refer to as _kawaii_ instead of cute. At first the whole Japanese obsession was intriguing, and wow did Evangelion ever mess with his mind, but he still finds that he’d rather be at home fucking around with Ransom than with her, enjoying the wacky antics of some nerdy hero and his improbable harem of cute girls. He _misses_ Ransom. He thinks watching anime with _Ransom_ would be a fucking blast. But this girl shushes him and tells him he has to watch certain parts very carefully, and Holster is not into being told how to consume his media. 

So as _kawaii_ as she is, he ends things. And when he does, he realizes the first thing he wants to do is run home to Ransom and tell him it’s over. Because… because.. why? What does he want from Ransom? And then it hits him so hard he almost falls over. He wants Ransom’s face to light up, and his shoulders to fall with relief. He wants Ransom to lift a hand to his jaw and say, “Thank God, man. You belong here with me.” He wants the revelation to lead to a first kiss.

God damn it, he’s been in love with Ransom all this time and never knew it. 

Holster’s hope is short-lived. It’s that very night that Ransom starts in again with one of his ridiculous detachment rants, and Holster listens carefully as he always does, nodding and “hmm”ing along as Ransom goes on. 

“I mean, someday I’m gonna get married, you know?” Ransom says. “And have kids, and my days are going to be crazy. Good crazy, but crazy. And we can’t just schedule time together regularly, as much as we might want to. That’s just not the way the world works. So it makes way more sense if we just cut things off at the end of college and go our separate ways. I’ve gotta prove it’s possible, man. I _know_ it has to be possible.”

Holster nods and smiles and wants to punch his lights out.

At practice, Holster’s supervising the frogs as they do a stick-handling drill. Ransom is working with the other guys at the far end of the rink. As Holster watches him, Ransom does a sweet turn and skates backward, laughing. The light from the giant windows catches on his skin and turns it to burnished gold. 

He’s going to have to let go of _this._ God, he can’t. How can he? Life sucks _ass._

Tango fumbles, the puck goes skittering, and Holster scowls. “Jesus, get a fucking hold of yourself.” When Whiskey snickers, Holster turns an angry eye on him. “And your attitude _sucks,_ Whisk. This isn’t a fucking laugh riot, it’s practice. So keep practicing.”

His mood sours, and the rest of practice doesn’t go any better. Afterward Ransom calls him on it, and Holster curses at him and marches away. He wants to detach? Fine, let him _fucking_ detach then. Let him deal without Holster always there to prop him up.

Unfortunately, they do share an attic. So Holster does the only thing he possibly can: he sleeps all the fucking time. When he’s in the Haus, he’s in the attic, on his bed, letting life roll by him in dozens of lost hours. Better than being up, and loving, and hurting so goddamned bad anyway.

But the problem with punishing Ransom is, it hurts Holster too. Eventually he returns to normal. He can’t stay away, he can’t stay mad. And when they miss the playoffs by one game, he can’t turn Ransom away when, crying, he seeks solace for the night. The warmth of Ransom’s body against his is crushingly good, and Holster cherishes it, closing his eyes and pressing kiss after soft kiss to Ransom’s forehead. “You did good,” he murmurs over and over. “Rans, you did so good. You were such a good captain.” When they wake in the morning, the joy that overflows in Holster’s heart just from being there, from having the experience of holding Ransom close, buoys him past the disappointment of losing. He knows it’s not as easy for Ransom, but he’s flying so high on just the memory, he can’t keep it inside.

He gets a job interview in Boston. It’s a good job, in a good location, but it’s not Ransom’s location. When they start asking questions about Holster’s relocation, Holster gets a little less confident. And then he asks a stupid, self-sabotaging question about the possibility of telecommuting. It’s dumb and he knows he’s flubbed the interview the minute his two interviewers look at each other with sober faces. Fuck it. Who wants this stupid job anyway? 

Who wants anything, except to be with the person they love forever and ever? It should be a no-brainer. They’re soulmates. They’re best friends. Holster doesn’t even need Ransom to date him, if that’s not what he wants. He just doesn’t want to be without him. And lucky him, Holster’s managed to fall in love with the one and only guy who actively _does_ want it.

And then their graduation robes arrive, and the sadness nearly crushes Holster. He trudges home, expecting a jubilant Ransom, shining with promise about the new chapter in his life. 

He gets a broken Ransom instead.

“Don’t leave me alone,” Ransom says, and his head is hanging down in defeat, and God, _no, no, no_ , Holster can’t handle this, he can’t handle Ransom getting weak when it’s only Ransom’s strength and resoluteness that has kept Holster from bursting out with all his hidden hopes and dreams. 

It all comes tumbling down now, his control and his restraint, and he does it. He tells Ransom, finally, _finally._ Not just that he doesn’t want to leave. Not just that it’s all been about him, his breakup and his sleeping and his craptastic job interview. But he tells Ransom why.

_“I fucking love you, man. I don’t want to live without you. Period.”_

And Ransom – 

Ransom starts to cry. 

Ransom cries, and calls him by his first name, and says the words that Holster never thought he’d hear him say. 

Holster can’t believe them, at first. He doesn’t trust them. So he’s careful. He’s so careful, as he drags his fingers through the tracks of Ransom’s tears. “Is this okay?” he asks, feeling as though his heart is made of porcelain or glass, fearing that if he makes one wrong move, it will fall and shatter.

But Ransom says, “Okay.”

Holster dares move then, pulling them together, letting their foreheads touch, and he asks again, because his heart is wobbling, vibrating with the fragility of the moment. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

The words are so very near his lips, and Holster breathes them in. His eyes fall to half-mast, his breath and Ransom’s breath all together, a dream hovering a half-inch from reality. Here they are, and Holster doesn’t have to let go after all. He doesn’t have to live without Ransom. Not now, not ever again.

“Okay?” he asks one final time before they kiss.

And Ransom says, “Okay.”


End file.
